


Freefall

by nuuboo (orphan_account)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:21:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5338985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/nuuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A journal entry from Kakashi's perspective about his relationship with Iruka, and how it's changed him in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freefall

Somewhere along the line, I realized that I’d been caught. Not caught as in… _by the enemy_ (that would’ve been easier) _,_ but more like… under a spell. Yes, that it’s. Under a spell. His spell. Sounds cliche, but it’s true. It’s the only way to describe it. There’s something about the way he is that makes me… different. Strange. I don’t know whether I like it or not, sometimes. Sometimes it’s great. Sometimes it’s frightening. Sometimes it’s both, and the exhilaration is what I crave again and again and again. It’s like jumping off a cliff without a parachute, but I never land. I just reset, mid-jump, and then I jump again. It never settles. It never calms. It never fades.  _He_  never fades. 

When he looks at me, it’s like he sees right through my face and into my soul. Before him, I didn’t think I had one. But maybe I do, because he’s looking at something, and it’s not my nose or my mouth or my chest, it’s beyond that, it’s beyond my skeleton; it’s deep within me– somewhere I don’t want to look. Or maybe I don’t have one, and he’s seeing nothing but emptiness, and he’s deciding that it’s okay. He never looks at me as though I’m not okay. I don’t know how he does it, because I’m a mess. Still a mess. Always will be a goddamned mess, Hokage or not. Not even suited for the job, anyway. But he doesn’t think so. Don’t know what that means. He could be right. He’s usually right, and I don’t understand it. Could be that I am suited. Maybe I’ll do something good with my life after all. There it is. He makes me think like that. Three years ago, I wouldn’t have said that. It frightens me. It’s like I’m not  _me_  anymore. I don’t think like that. I’m the worst of the worst. I let people down so many times that I’m not worth his time, or anyone’s time, or this position, or the trust that people place in me, but he’s making me think that maybe things will change, because things ar changing all the time. Things are changing now, after this war, with this new era. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Dammit. Sometimes, I’m angry about it. I’m angry now. Not at him. God, no. Angry at myself. I don’t understand it. 

When he touches me, it’s crazy. It’s wild. He could be tapping my shoulder to get my attention and it’d feel like he zapped me. And I know he didn’t zap me because his chakra nature is water, not lightning, so it’s impossible. I know that. But it feels like he did and I never know what to do. Sometimes I don’t do anything, so that he’ll do it again. Or sometimes I turn to look at him, like I expect to see him with some crazy electric fly-swatter, but it’s just him, with some papers in his hand (he’s always got some goddamned papers, I don’t know how he does it) and he’s staring back at me as though I just missed what he said to me, and I did, so he repeats it. It’s patient with me. He must know that this is new for me, because he’s patient, like a saint. I don’t know if saints are really patient, but god, he’s patient. It’s like he thinks we have all the time in the world. And maybe we do. Maybe we’ll grow old together in a nice house, with the dogs, with a kid, with three kids (he loves kids). There I go again, sounding stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I don’t think like that. I don’t get to grow old. I don’t deserve that chance. But he makes it seem like it’ll happen anyway, and what do I do? Is that okay? Is it real?

Back to his touch. Crazy. He’ll touch my shoulders, when we’re home and unwinding, and I’ll feel like I’m melting into gross, liquid fat. He kisses my head and it’s warm, I’m warm, my face is warm, everywhere’s warm because  _he’s_  warm, and it’s transferring to all of me. It doesn’t matter if he’s just being affectionate, or if we’re naked in bed, and the touching is deliberate. It scares me almost as much as the first thing. His hands on me are hot, like those rocks people put on your backs when you go to the spa. But they’re burning, they’re stinging my skin even though nothing’s on his hands, and all he’s doing is running them down my chest. And it feels good. It’s that exhilarating feel again. It feels good. I want to feel it again and again. And he looks at me in the dark, and I can tell he’s looking at me because I just  _know,_  and his hair’s down and he’s got a look in his eye that I really can’t explain, but I love it, and I think to myself, ‘I’m going to be killed’. And that sounds stupid, because I trust him not to do that, but that’s how it is. All I can do is lie there and feel like I’m running a marathon without actually moving, and I can’t think, I can’t think of anything, and that’s never happened to me before him. I’m  _blank,_  I’m empty, but it’s okay because he’s there, and he knows what to do, and I trust him. I realize then (this happens every time, like clockwork) that I’m the one caught and he’s the one calling the shots, and that it’s always been like that, and that it always will be. 

I’m lucky. I realize this. Not lucky that there’s someone out there that’s willing to put up with my sorry ass, but that it’s him. And he knows this. He knows that I’m lucky because he’s made it that way. He must’ve. He picked me. I think back to the beginning and I realize that I couldn’t have stopped things, because I was already caught. He’d invite me to dinner and I’d go, and I’d ask myself, 'Why are you going?’ because I don’t like socializing and I don’t even know how good his cooking is, and the food at the cafe is probably better, and I’d get to take home a box and eat alone, but by the time I’ve figured this out, I’m at his door, knocking, and he’s answering, and he’s looking at me (but not at my face, he’s looking _through_  me, to my insides) and saying something witty about how I’m not even late, and I look at the clock and realize that shit, I’m not. I’m not late. I should be, because I don’t have a reason for being on time, and there’s a lot else I could be doing, but I’m not doing it. I’m here. With him. Eating food that is, hey, surprisingly good. He tells me to have seconds and I have seconds, because it’s that good. And I come again, because he invited me, and it keeps going. And now I’m here. I’m here because one day, I just didn’t leave. Still haven’t. I’m writing this on his desk, with his pen, and that’s not even weird anymore because I’ve been here before, I’ve written this all out before, and it’s become normal.

This is my life now. Would’ve laughed at the thought of this three years ago. Actually, I wouldn’t have laughed because I hardly laughed at all. But now I do. And that’s not me. I’m changing. I don’t even know what  _'me’_  is anymore. I’m not the Copy Nin, even though I still know all those techniques. I’m the Hokage, and I don’t know how I got here, or when it’ll end, or if it’ll end at all. But he’s here, and I’m not worried. He’s making me do crazy things, except… he’s not really making me do them. I’m doing them. This is the 'me’ that I don’t know anymore. But that’s okay. I want the rush. I’m at the top of the cliff again, and he’s standing with me. He’s not at the bottom, ready to catch me. He’s right next to me, staring at me, waiting for my decision. And I don’t think anymore. I don’t have to. I know what I’ll do. I’ll take his hand and I’ll jump, and it’ll be scary and exciting and new and different and all sorts of other things. And I’ll do it again the next time, too.


End file.
